


Of Teenagers and Deductions

by madoren



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Slice of Life, Teen!Sherlock, guardian!Joan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:24:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madoren/pseuds/madoren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU- Set in a world where Sherlock is a teenager and Watson is his legal guardian. Not so much a cohesive work as a series of drabbles all taking place in the same universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watson; Joan

It hadn't been more than a "Ms. Watson" since he'd moved in, occasionally a tight "Watson" if something displeased him (which happened more often that she cared to acknowledge.) It wasn't that she was surprised or even upset. By all means, she had only been a fixture in his life up until roughly age five, before the combination of logistics a since forgotten argument put distance between herself and his mother. The ten years of being strangers would cause him to act this way, it was only natural. It was just so hard to help him from a distance, sometimes.

Joan could easily assess the external influences on Sherlock. His mother, one of her closest friends and well on her way to being the oldest, had fallen ill rather unexpectedly. She lived long enough to suss out Sherlock's addiction, though he was already very deep by the time she was able to assert her authority as mother and have him sent to rehab. That in itself had been the catalyst that rekindled the fervor of their friendship- the fear (or perhaps knowledge?) that her time was short in this world had prompted the activation of Joan's godmother status. She was loaded with the status of legal guardian with surprising speed, but had no chance to see her oldest friend or her new charge before the one was checked in to a clinic while the other moved into a hospice and wasted away quicker than anyone expected. So within months of gaining her friend back, she lost her all the same.

Sherlock was unnervingly silent when she went to visit him at the clinic, almost the picture of disinterest: legs crossed away from her, upper body leaning away, face just noticeably directed away from her gaze. He was incapable of extending this act to his eyes, however. If the sharp nose and pointed jawline was not enough to affirm his parentage, his ever searching, ever deducing gaze would be enough to seal the deal. Years spent as roommates with his mother had desensitized Joan; she no longer felt stripped and invaded. All she felt meeting Sherlock (again) was a dull pain somewhere in her chest.

Upon his release, Sherlock began speaking with her, as if on a slow path to 'normalcy'. Every time she swabbed his mouth, she held proof that he was clean. He was attending school again, as any sixteen year old boy should be. Though Joan had the suspicion he could have easily tested out of high school at this point, she thought being in an environment with others his age might do him so good. It seemed to be working well enough. She doubted he was making many friends (he was so very disagreeable, another family trait...), but the constant sensory stimulation of the environment did a lot to occupy his mind.

"This is brilliant, Ms. Watson," he had said once, barely audible over the half dozen videos and clips he had playing simultaneously on his computer screen, "it's like taking my brain to the gym after a long hiatus." After such a statement, she could only assume that a noisy public school would be the best setting for him. His less destructive treatment of the walls in his bedroom were all the evidence she needed.

Joan's life didn't feel settled after his enrollment, though. The whole process of acclimatizing to life as a guardian was small step after small step. No single step or combination thereof made her feel any less like she simply had a guest in her house. She was getting to know the boy, of course, but there was no connection. In low moments, she allowed herself to think of this as a penalty for not being a part of his life for most of it (some godmother she was.)

Sherlock's life hadn't completely settled yet, either, based on the muffled moans of pain coming from beneath his door. Physically clean, the boy, but still burdened. "Watson," he had snapped on multiple occasions, "your repeated invasions of my mouth keep proving I'm off the stuff. Leave me be." She had heard those moans before, though. Liam suffered symptoms of withdrawal long after being off the stuff. Sherlock himself was not in pain for the first time since living with her. She stood from her bed, like so many nights before, and shuffled quietly towards his room.

She lightly knocked on his door, more ceremony than anything, and let herself in without waiting for a response. She dodged the mess that was his floor and sat on the edge of his bed, taking in the scene. The thin boy was so soaked in sweat that she could hardly make out his pained tears; his eyes remained ever lucid, gazing all around but never making contact with her own. This was a night like any other, for all she could tell. It was playing out as before, almost like clockwork.

Internally, she was at a tipping point, however. His next grunt of pain shifted her balance, and Joan allowed herself to break from the imaginary script. Within moments she exits the room only to enter again, this time with cold water and a washcloth in tow. She sits again, allowing herself more of the bed than just it's edge, and cleans his face with gentle motions. Her left hand, free of the wash cloth, smooths his hair back and cups his cheek gently.

"Joan," Sherlock whispers, and it means a lot of things. Help me. Don't leave. Thank you. It's just her first name (which she had been insisting he call her for months now,) but it feels like everything sliding into place. He was already taller than her in his young age, but the face in her hands looked so boyish. She could almost see the little five year old, calling her name and spouting out observations to get her attention. The disconnect between these two Sherlocks was gone, and with a start Joan thought she might understand a bit better what it meant to be a mom.


	2. Not exactly conducive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less angsty this time around!

_"No answer, no take-out. Hope you're ok with your infamous spaghetti in a mug."_   It was very unlike Sherlock not to respond to her messages. She couldn't even get through a day at the clinic without her phone discretely vibrating in her desk, typically a message full of observations he's made of his classmates or teachers ( _'Vice prncpl plays w/ring 2much. Affair. But who?')_ typically full of information she didn't need to know. The oddity of his radio silence was merely compounded by the fact that she had not yet known him to avoid a chance to eat take-out.  Joan was not much of a cook, and she had no inclination to suddenly gain an interest in it, and Sherlock did not seem to have enjoyed her rare attempts so far. The laziness that kept him from eating regularly also extended to the actual act of making food.

Turning onto their block at last, it was mere moments before she unlocked the stairwell's door. It swung open and she stepped through before perking her ears at the loud talking, almost yelling, coming from further up the flight of stairs. The acoustics of the stairwell caused disorienting echos, but Joan easily recognized the tone of her ward's voice. Rushing up the two flights to their apartment's door, she instictively stepped infront of a very affronted looking teenager.

"Excuse me, but may I ask what the cause for all this yelling is?" She directed her inquiry at the man infront of the opposite door, reaching behind her with her free hand instinctively. She hoped Sherlock understood that this was his sign to be quiet and let her do the talking, but shot him a look from the side to ensure the message was delivered.

"This punk was trying to break into the apartment behind you. I just got off of my shift at the  _police department_ ," it was hard to miss the pointed look he shot over her shoulder, "but will not hesitate to take him there myself." Joan spared a look to their door- it showed no signs of damage, but lock pick hanging crookedly out of the keyhole was hard to miss. Her eyes did a familiar roll  upwards in exasperation (the muscle memory for this had developed very quickly following his integration into her home life) and held her sigh in.

"Sherlock, you know how I feel about this hobby of yours." She turned her head to see the tight frown of his mouth contract further, a small line on his face. He lifted his chin as if ready to dismiss interest in her feelings; unfortunately for him, Joan had been training and perfected her own mother's 'mom-look', which was sufficient enough to make him lower his eyes in deference. Turning to the confused man still occupying the hallway, she cracked an awkward smile at him.

"I'm really sorry, it seems like this is all a big misunderstanding. My name is Joan Watson, and this is my godson, Sherlock Holmes- this is our apartment. Sherlock favours unorthodox hobbies. Unfortunately." She nudged the teenager who had stepped up beside her lightly, and shook her head at his completely insincere and mumbled apology.

Her hand remained extended for a frozen moment, before the stranger shook it with a firm grasp, "I'm... sorry for the misunderstanding. I'm sure you understand why I jumped to conclusions... It's nice to meet you, it looks like I'm your new neighbor. Marcus Bell, but please just call me Marcus." His smile seemed a bit unsure, but the tension lifted quite quickly. The heat against her thigh reminded her of dinner, and with minimal small talk they excused themself and went into their respective apartments.

Joan leveled a look at Sherlock once inside, very much channeling her mother once more, "Lock picking as a hobby is not exactly conducive to keeping you out of trouble. If you have any other unsavory hobbies I don't know about, I suggest keeping it out of shared or public spaces as much as possible." One corner of his mouth quirked lower. This face was used to signify a lot more emotions than one would think, and Joan chose to interpret it as an apology (for the sake of her own mental health.) It was likely he wasn't even remotely bothered by the events in the hallway, but at least he appeared to be considering her words.

"Still- no answer to my texts, no take-out. This is my Chicken Satay. You know where you can find the noodles and sauce."


	3. Golden Beeches - Part I

Sherlock was standing at attention just in the doorway, positively vibrating. He precariously balanced on the balls of his feet- if Joan didn't ask him what he wanted soon, he might just tip over and let it all spill out anyways. She glanced at the clock over him- 7am. Far too early to deal with an excited Sherlock on the weekend. She looked back down to his face and made eye contact.

His frown tightened as she leisurely sipped at her coffee. His setting switched from shake to bounce. A small smile on her lips, and a slight sparkle in her eye easily told him that she was enjoying this. A lift of his chin and a minute lowering of her eyelids easily told her that she was getting to him. She held in her chuckle and drained the last of the coffee from her mug.

" _Alright._ I'll bite, what is it."

"I'm glad you asked, Ms. Watson. It's concerning an acquaintance of mine from the clinic, Vidal. He has contacted me with a most interesting case."

Joan shot him a look, "You say 'case' and all I hear is 'this is best handled by the police.' I know you like snooping around and collecting gossip, but-" Sherlock's chest puffed out in indignation and he quickly cut in.

"It is not  _snooping_ , nothing so, so... so pedestrian! I do not  _snoop_ , Ms. Watson, I  _deduce._ And I do not  _gossip_." Joan turned from pouring herself another cup of coffee and held her free hand aloft in surrender.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'll concede- you deduce, you don't snoop. But whether or not you deign to admit it, all of those tidbits and deductions you text me about people I don't know about? The 'person x is cheating', 'person y had plastic surgery because reason' stuff? That's gossip. Your denial is hereby being ignored." Sherlock counted her concession as a small victory, and bristled at the derailing of their conversation.

"Yes, yes, back to Vidal. We met in the clinic, as I stated. He's older than me, and was sent there by what was, at the time, a prospective employer. He was given an offer that seemed to good to be true, but he took advantage of it as an excuse to get clean." He accessed her weary look before she could muster the energy to cut in, and quickly continued on. "The job offer had nothing to do with drugs at all, before you feel the need to insinuate otherwise. He was taken on as a sort of  _factotum_. ... _Factotum_ , Latin for 'do everything', essentially means servant with multiple duties."

Joan laughed lightly, "I took a few years of Latin in college to give me an advantage later in medical school. I'm familiar with the term. What was so unbelievably good about a job as a servant?"

"The pay, quite simply. He was offered three, count them, three  _thousand_ dollars a month. His job is sometimes babysitting his employers son, but mostly he helps out about the property- cleaning, yard work. He expected a lot of that work for the pay he was offered, but he's reporting that he's hardly ever called upon to do anything."

"That does sound a bit odd," Joan considered, "but it could be that he just has a gracious employer." Sherlock was buzzing again, and started pacing the kitchen, gesturing emphatically with his hands.

"Odd, yes. But not odd enough to warrant concern. He was desperate for a job, so of course he took it. The job's not what he expected- but really, how much can you expect when a man on the street offers to send you to rehab and give you a job? The oddity in this situation lies mainly with his employer, Mr. Castle. Vidal had long, wavy hair when we met in the clinic. A lovely shade of coppery red. It was a point of pride for him, really- no matter how much his body showed the effects of his addiction, he did all he could to keep his hair well maintained. Earned him the nickname Sampson at the clinic, in fact. His employer made him cut his hair."

Sherlock abruptly stopped his pacing and moved to start pouring himself a bowl of cereal. "That's not unheard of by any means," his voice rose over the crinkling of plastic, "but what is weird, is that his employer makes him straighten his hair every morning. He's also very particular of Vidal's weight- Vidal reports that he's not gained as much weight back as he's expected, following his release. He writes that some nights, he's asked to wear a specific jean jacket and sit outside on the closed porch with him. More recently, Mr. Castle had him outside for an evening and spent it telling stories and jokes that apparently nearly had Vidal rolling with laughter- but Castle's face remained impassive the whole time. The only odd thing was that his eyes kept flickering to look out behind him, in the dark. Vidal has no idea what he's looking at, but swears he's noticed a man occasionally wandering the grounds in the middle of the night from his bedroom window."

Joan stood and shooed Sherlock off of the counter and in the direction of the kitchen table, taking a moment to peel a banana pulled from the fruit bowl behind where he was sitting. "That does all sound very weird, I'm completely with you on that. But," she chewed on a piece of her fruit thoughtfully, "I'm not necessarily sure there's any cause for concern. I mean, aside from what sounds like a potential stalker or a potential thief lurking on the property. I'm not sure where your deducing would come into play in this situation, aside from maybe figuring out why Vidal's boss is so weird." Sherlock eyes brightened as she spoke herself into his 'trap' and quirked his mouth into a near invisible smile.

"Oh, that's not all of it, Ms. Watson. Mr. Castle's property is somewhat upstate, it's farmland. He has two buildings there- the house, and a small barn on the other end of the property. Vidal has been  _forbidden_ from going to or into the barn. He wrote me a message this morning. As one can guess from it being forbidden, he tried to sneak over there this morning and have a look. There was a room inside of the barn, and he heard shuffling inside. The room had a large padlock on the door, and" Sherlock pointed his dripping spoon at Joan, "before he could get closer to try to look through the crack, Mr. Castle appears as if from nowhere behind him. Vidal is shocked, naturally, and then more so when Mr. Castle shows an unusual amount of apology and concern. Then, as if realizing Vidal knew it was an act, grew angry and flew into a rage at him. He's taken to tying his dog outside of the barn, to keep Vidal from trying to enter again. His apparently vicious dog, mind you. It seems Mr. Castle has been regularly mistreating the poor thing." Joan frowned at this and shifted against the counter.

"That... is very weird, yeah. And very wrong, the poor dog. Poor Vidal, for that matter. What have you deduced?"

Sherlock paused his hands, bowl lifted nearly to his mouth, "I've researched this matter some, and began with my deductions. I thought it would be a good experience for you to get to know me if we did a little... field trip. To visit Vidal. I told him to expect us around noon. Mr. Castle's property is south-west of Albany, out in the country. If we want to avoid being stuck in city traffic for too long, I would suggest you get ready now. Wouldn't want to fall behind schedule, would we?" he grinned at her for a split second, before downing the last of the milk from his cereal. Joan fixed him with a pointed glare.

"Sherlock, it's Saturday morning. I deserve my weekend, I don't see why you need me to drive you the 3 hours it will probably take to even get there! Why would you think I'd agree to this?"

The young man in question developed a serious expression, looking out of the window but not seeing, "I don't know,  _Joan_. I feel that the fresh air in the country would do me good. It can get so stifling in the city... temptation at every corner. It's enough to make a boy feel, I don't know.  _Relapse_ -y?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get down to the nitty gritty of a teen-aged detective, but it was hard finding anything that would allow a minor to do any snooping about. For those familiar with canon, I hope I do a decent job interpreting it! Please be gentle if disposed to rock throwing. Aim for my gut, it's my most pillowy part. ;D

**Author's Note:**

> This will be an ongoing sort of adventure for me, wherein I will be learning how to best write both of their characters. I thought of this AU probably while doing some completely unrelated activity, and keep having small stories pop into my head. Don't expect each drabble to be of the same tone!
> 
> If anyone, uh, would be interested in beta'ing... do say :D
> 
> EDIT: Wrote 'Ty' instead of 'Liam' initially- fixed!


End file.
